


The Way You Smile Golden

by PearlyDewdrops



Series: Under Red Skies [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Small Towns, lots of emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-01-31 08:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21443221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: "Thought I might find you here," Louis says softly, just audible enough for Harry to catch over the harshness of the sea's choppy waves.Harry whips his head around, hair blowing every which way, pink cheeks stained with drying tears. He looks stunned to see Louis, like he thought... "What are you doing here?”“Looking for you. Obviously. Why’d you think?” Louis picks up a stone and chucks it into an incoming wave, expanding across the sand.Harry’s pink features twist in confusion. He wraps his hands around his legs tighter, staring hard into the distance, sightlessly watching the waves retreat, leaving a trail of foam behind in their wake. “I thought I’d—I thought you might hate me after last night."Louis laughs once, tossing his head back. He shakes it as his gaze finds the horizon. Harry’s eyes flick back to him impressively fast. "Hate you? You're my best mate, you plonker," Louis huffs through a guilty smile. "I could never hate you."or: it's 1967 and two boys find themselves alone on a beach.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: Under Red Skies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545937
Comments: 13
Kudos: 192





	The Way You Smile Golden

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'What Have I Done' by Dermot Kennedy.
> 
> Hi!! This is a scene I've had in my head for a while and inspiration struck so i ran with it before I lost it. Just a little something I'd like to expand on as a some kind of genre series one of these days. Much love. :) xx
> 
> _"You should be happy. Proud." - LT_

A bitterly cold gust of wind harshly catches the side of Louis’ cheek, sharp as a razor blade, leaving his skin stinging pink. It rustles the stray browning leaves that lay clustered along the edge of the stone slabs where Louis stands outside the Red Lion pub, a permanent frown stuck to his features for the last hour or so.

He squints as he looks up, a cigarette clasped loosely between his fingers, his stomach sloshing around with unavoidable worry and futile expectations. The sun is doing its best to break through the grey clouds banding together overhead, Louis' mind occupied as it focuses on the same moment over and over like a merry-go-round.

He exhales, taking a final drag and drops his cigarette to the dusty ground, the toe of his brogue stepping on it, grinding it into the stone so that it's dust as well, merging with the history etched and marinated within these slabs of concrete, peppered with old, flattened cigarette butts.

Inside, through the window, he can see Niall, Liam and Zayn, already settled down with another pint each, engaged in quiet conversation, pairs of serious brows on all of their faces. Louis knows what they're talking about, if last night's racket is anything to go by.

He swipes his hand over his wax coated hair once and heads straight back to the bar.

Perhaps Harry will turn up soon.

He can't avoid Louis forever.

*

"So where is he?"

"Where's who?" Niall shoots back, suppressing a smirk.

“Where’s Harry?” Louis asks louder than necessary, a pint in one hand as he pulls out a chair with his other.

Niall makes a clueless face, shrugging. "Don't know."

Louis sighs, plonks himself down in the chair next to him with, catching Niall sending a not so subtle glance towards Liam.

“Lads,” Louis says, tired and unimpressed. “Do you think my eye sight’s packed it in or what? Come on. Where is he?”

“Harry left a while ago,” Liam says, a concerned tilt to his mouth as his hand stays wrapped around his glass, “but, um—” he shoots a loaded look at Zayn sat beside him.

“But what?”

Louis forces himself to take a sip of his pint, despite how unsettled his insides feel and it tastes dire in his mouth, just as he expected it would, triggering a quick flash of a beer-soaked smile, the briefest, urgent press of wet lips against his, like the cock of a gun, throwing Louis into a pit of fire that he'd rather stay in than escape from any day of the week. It makes his stomach drop with confusion. He doesn't know what he's been feeling lately, but he can barely sleep because of it.

That's a lie, though. Louis knows and understands exactly what he's been feeling.

He shifts awkwardly in his seat, feeling hollow. Feeling regret.

He just wants to know where Harry is.

Zayn, who’s staring curiously at Louis with that perpetually scrutinizing gaze of his on the opposite end of this sticky rectangular wooden table, scoffs. Louis watches him as Zayn sniffs once, leaning back to sit further in his chair. A hint of a smile lingers in the corner of his stubble lined mouth. Knowing. It drives Louis mad sometimes.

“Liam?” Louis urges. “Spit it out.” If any of them are likely to cave first, it’s Liam.

“He seemed upset. Was in a right hurry to get out of here, really.” Liam pauses, face sheepishly cocking to the side. "And we reckon it’s got something to do with you. Your behaviour last night. You know how sensitive Harry gets.” Liam's voice is mild, gentle, even. 

And still Louis feels caught. "What d'ya mean by that?" He darts his gaze away from Liam, staring at the foam of his pint like it's the most riveting shit in the world.

They’re all gathered just by the end of the huge brick fireplace, a ton of different sized logs piled in the middle. It’s toasty and smells of smoke and the remnants of women’s perfume. It’s familiar, too. Harry’s always here. Always with them.

Not today, though. Not that Louis is too surprised after what transpired late last night in the alley by this very pub. Not after Louis’ whole world view has been knocked on its axis.

He’s never experienced the sensation of butterflies in his stomach before. Not in the way he’s _meant_ to, anyway. According to the rest of society. Louis doesn't care for it.

These butterflies, though? Terrible things, beyond awful and Louis is so bloody scared because he so desperately wants to feel them again.

"You must know," Niall wonders, raising his brows. Whatever Niall is thinking, Louis is sure it's the wrong assumption. It's always the wrong assumption. 

“I saw him take his car earlier,” Zayn says, tone bland, ever the open book. Louis squints at him. “Liam’s right. Harry was in a rush to get away before you turned up." He sways his head in a gesture aimed at Louis. “You should talk to him. He was in a right foul mood.”

"As you keep saying," Louis says, taking a larger sip of his beer.

“Probably hungover,” Niall comments. “He absolutely was blitzed last night. More so than usual, too. You saw the state of him," he says, turning to Zayn, "knocking them back like fucking water, and that scowl on his face,” he chuckles, whistling. "Jesus. Thought he was gonna murder you, Lou, to be honest."

Louis' jaw clenches, the images of last night returning: Louis trapped by the bar, listening to Gracie Webster chew his ear off about The Carpenters, playfully shoving his shoulder, leaning in closer. The burn of Harry's immovable gaze on the back of his neck. Rosie Wilson sitting beside Harry at their table, taking Louis' seat. Smiling with something far too akin to hope in her big brown eyes.

He clears his throat, settles his attention back on Zayn. “When was this? When did he leave, I mean?”

“A couple hours ago, at least.”

“You said a _while_, Liam,” Louis accuses, already out of his seat.

“Sorry,” Liam says instantly. Louis sighs, regretting his sharp tone. His head's somewhere else. 

“Look, just because we don’t keep track of the kid like you do. You're like a gambler addicted to the races when it comes to our Harry,” Niall says with an eye roll, taking a swig. And Louis knows it’s a joke, but there’s an edge to that statement and Louis’ paranoid mind presses on it, like an open wound, whipping his head around to level Niall with a steady look.

“What’s that supposed to mean, eh?” Louis says sharply. "He's your mate, too, ain't he?" And Harry’s Louis'_ best_ mate. And he’s younger than the rest of them. Is it wrong to want to look out for him?

“Nothing,” Niall sighs, his slightly standoffish expression softening out. “Just—I'm just sayin', well, you two are attached at the hip, aren’t you? Everyone around 'ere knows you two come as a set. Why don’t you leave him be for a while, eh? Give him some space for once."

Louis’ frown turns confused. Hurt. “He wants space? He's been avoiding me all day, you know. Has he said something to you? Any of you?” Louis glances around the table.

“No, not as such,” Zayn cuts in. “It’s just—”

“Just what?” Louis asks quietly, stomach heavy.

“Have you ever considered that maybe you’re the reason he’s upset, mate? He saw you getting friendly with Rosie Wilson last night, you know.”

Louis almost laughs. Genuinely nearly throws his head back and cackles. But he can’t do that, can he? So instead he goes for an impartial, “Right. I see.”

“He has a crush on Rosie, Lou,” Liam says, and it’s so comical, that that’s what they all actually think. And why wouldn’t they? What other plausible reason would there be for Harry to not want her? A nice, pretty girl like Rosie. Or Louis, for that matter?

There isn't one. Not one that's...

_Acceptable_, Louis thinks bitterly. Even that bill that was passed a few months back doesn't seem to have changed the attitudes around here.

“How’d you work that one out?”

Liam gives Louis a bemused look. 

“The way he stares at the two of you, for starters! Like a hawk ready to attack its prey whenever she’s with you, that lad is. He’s jealous of you, Louis. Anyone can see that,” Liam explains, confident that he’s got this right.

And he is right.

But Louis isn’t the one Harry is jealous of.

Niall sets his glass down. “You were flirting with her right in front of his face. Of course he’s got the hump today. Any lad would."

With a soft exhale, Louis grimaces, itching the back of his neck as he swaps his weight onto his left foot.

Zayn looks at Liam for a moment, thoughtful, then settles his intense gaze back on Louis. God, he wishes Zayn wouldn’t do that. Look at him like he’s dissecting a rare insect. Wanting to pick apart his brain. God only knows no one can know what goes on in there. “Yeah. Jealous,” he echoes, the words slow and drawled. His tone skeptical, as though Harry being jealous of Louis because of Rosie is the least likely option at the bottom of the list.

Louis’ heart beats a little faster. He swallows thickly.

They weren’t even doing anything. Him and Rosie. They just talk. Like him and Gracie. Harry only saw them talking, laughing at a stupid joke he made that he probably got from Harry anyway, and maybe Rosie slid her hand subtly up his arm. Searching for something Louis isn’t willing to give.

There’s just such little chance of anything else happening that it would be almost funny, if it wasn’t so terrifying.

“I better go look for him.”

“What about your drink?” Niall says, throwing up his hands.

“Harry’s more important than a bleedin' drink, Niall."

“Yeah,” Niall nods, taking another sip from his glass. “Always is,” he says, and he sounds a bit hurt about it.

Great. Now he’s upset the rest of his mates. He can't seem to get anything right lately. His head to busy swarming with ideas he should leave well alone if he wants an easy life without trouble.

That's not how life is, though, is it?

“Oh, Niall. Don’t be like that,” Louis says, face crumpling in remorse as he wipes a hand over his face. “I'm sorry. I don’t mean to leave you lot out—"

“No, I’m sorry. I’m not tryin’ to cause something,” Niall tells him, and it just makes Louis feel like even worse of a friend. Perhaps he does focus too much energy on Harry. But there’s a reason for that.

“Just go,” Zayn says. “Go on. And then bring him back here and tell him to pack it in, would you? Getting sick of his sulking, if I’m honest. Startin' to wonder if that boy will ever be happy.”

Louis looks at his shoes. "I wonder that, too."

When he looks up, it's to Niall giving Louis another rueful smile.

"We'll go try that new bar that's opened in town later, yeah?" Louis offers.

"Sounds like a night of it," Niall agrees with a smile and a wink.

Louis returns the smile gratefully, thinking about where to look first.

There’s one place Harry goes when he wants to think, wants to be on his own. And Louis’ the only one who knows. Knows that Harry’s place is by the sea, the one place he feels most at peace with himself.

He sticks his hand in his jacket pocket and pulls out his car keys.

*

After about an hour’s drive out from Crewe, growing steadily more worried about Harry’s state after distractedly listening to the car radio playing everything from The Who to The Supremes to Jackie Wilson, Louis comes to a stop in his fairly battered blue Cadillac (due to Louis’ tendency to drive a bit on the wild and irresponsible side. When the others are in the car, they scream bloody murder). He parks on the side of the road at the bottom of the twelve-foot grass hill, a vast rectangular green lawn used as a practice cricket pitch on Sundays, a little dark wooden cabin with a lined front porch situated at the far end.

Louis and Harry have spent many of those Sunday mornings here, sat on the green and messing about, only half-watching the cricket, too busy sharing a cigarette, and Louis too busy relishing the encouragement Harry’s laughter at anything Louis said gave him.

He smiles at the memory, gaze in his lap.

Simpler times.

He looks up through the smudged windscreen that could do with a clean.

At the top of the hill and beyond is Wallasey Beach, looking out over Liverpool Bay.

It’s Harry’s favourite place.

Wallasey Beach. Where Harry got drunk for the first time on his fifteenth birthday, spurred on and regrettably encouraged by Louis and their shared plastered mates, before the night came to an abrupt end when Harry threw up the entire contents of his stomach onto the sand and cried his eyes out, embarrassed like hell. Louis felt like a right dickhead, not least because Harry was clearly only carrying on drinking to impress him. To score points in Louis’ non-existent book of swag or something ridiculous.

Louis being two years older than Harry has meant the younger boy has been forever adamant to prove himself, as if Louis wouldn’t want to hang out with a boy who secretly liked to knit, got sick too quickly after drinking and wore woolly jumpers because he liked them.

But they’ve had good times here, too.

Summers that neither of them wanted to end, being stupid and chasing each other into the water, coming here to light fires and talk about nothing and everything. Watching sunrises and sunsets. Learning new things about the other each time they came here.

It was like this beach was the keeper of all their secrets.

What they told each other at this beach stayed right here, hidden amongst the foam of the waves, tucked into the crevices of the shells, buried in the soaked sand.

It’s Harry’s favourite place, but it’s also _their place._

Louis’ certain Harry is here.

He exhales, turns off the engine and then opens the driver’s door, swinging himself out of the car.

The sun is beginning to set, a brilliant orange glow sitting on the horizon, on the edge of the sea’s surface and in the centre of a wash of soft pinks and mauves where the clouds have parted and brought forward the last remnants of sunlight before dusk. But the air is more than a bit chilly, and as Louis climbs up the grass bank to make his way onto the deserted beach, hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets, he spots Harry’s perfectly-kept green Austin A40 parked further down the road, clean and waxed and polished, reflecting the sun’s golden hues.

The harsh breeze lashes against Louis’ cheeks the closer to the sea he gets, eyes squinting and watering a bit as he starts to trudge through the stones.

And there, sitting as close to the tide as he can reach without getting a damp bum in the wet sand, probably, is Harry.

Harry, who’s huddled up and hunched in on himself, looking small and isolated.

Harry, a tiny lone figure swamped in a jumper that’s much too large for him, his chocolate brown hair curling at his ears as it whips and ruffles from the wind.

Harry, so openly vulnerable and instinctively kind in ways that yank and pull at Louis’ fraying heartstrings, wanting desperately to protect this boy from the severity and cruelty of the world around them, from the malicious words that sear into Harry’s milky, delicate skin, no matter how hard he tries to pretend they don’t hurt him.

With his heart skipping a beat without his permission, Louis removes one hand from his pocket and tugs the collar of his brown biker jacket up, attempting to cover his exposed throat from the assault of the great big whooshes of air being pelted at him as he makes his way down. Down the beach and onto the unsteady moving surface of the stones, towards his best friend.

(And if Louis’ wearing this particular jacket today because it’s Harry’s favourite that he owns? Well. It can’t hurt much more than things are hurting now, can it?)

And Harry is his best friend. Something like this—whatever it is—can’t and won’t change that, if Louis has anything to about it.

Six years, they’ve known each other, been attached to each other's sides practically every day. 

Louis can barely remember his life before Harry since he moved with his family from Doncaster to Cheshire. He’d just turned sixteen, Harry having lived in Holmes Chapel all his life.

But Louis remembers meeting Harry as clear as he can see the feet he takes his steps with.

Like something out of an old film, they met by chance one bitterly cold but sunny afternoon after school in January, not long after Louis had started his first job as a mechanic, working with his step-dad who’d bought the garage just before they’d moved into the small, quiet village. Harry, still thirteen then, and awkwardly shy at the time, was there with his own father, who had come to pick up their 1957 Austin A40 Farina. Now that car belongs to Harry.

"Do you like cars?" Harry had said, red in the face, speaking louder to Louis on purpose, to create the illusion that he was always that confident. He was even leaning on the side of the Farina's hood.

"I like that one," Louis had grinned at him, gesturing to the green farina with his eyes and his upper body half poking out from under the car he was working on. 

Harry followed his gaze. "We can take it for a spin?"

"You mean _I_ can take it for a spin," Louis laughed, wheeling himself out and standing up, wiping the grease on his hand on his overalls. "How old are you? Twelve?"

"Thirteen," Harry mumbled, blushing furiously. "But I'll be fourteen in February," he rushed to correct.

"Okay, kiddo," Louis replied with a smirk.

Harry went positively crimson. 

He knows Harry can hear the crashing of the stones under Louis' feet, can hear them even above the waves thrashing in front of them, but Harry doesn’t turn around. Probably assumes it’s a stranger walking their dog along the coastline, is likely waiting for the sound of the dog barking to confirm his assumption.

Louis' feet come to a halt just behind Harry’s back.

"Thought I might find you here," Louis says softly, just audible enough for Harry to catch over the harshness of the sea's choppy waves.

Harry whips his head around, hair blowing every which way, pink cheeks stained with drying tears. He looks stunned to see Louis, like he thought... "What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you. Obviously. Why’d you think?” Louis picks up a stone and chucks it into an incoming wave, expanding across the sand.

Harry’s pink features twist in confusion. He wraps his hands around his legs tighter, staring hard into the distance, sightlessly watching the waves retreat, leaving a trail of foam behind in their wake.

“I thought I’d—I thought you might hate me after last night."

Louis laughs once, tossing his head back. He shakes it as his gaze finds the horizon. Harry’s eyes flick back to him impressively fast. "Hate you? You're my best mate, you plonker," Louis huffs through a guilty smile. "I could never hate you." His smile falters, ashamed. "I shouldn't have run off like that. You must have been thinking all sorts."

"I was so scared I chucked up my crumpet this morning,” Harry admits, tone morbid, but he smiles at Louis mildly before he bows his head. When looks back up, he meets Louis' awaiting gaze with wide glossy eyes.

And they’re hopeful, but still glazed with fear.

"Will you sit with me?" Harry asks him.

Louis sits, the stones crunching uncomfortably underneath him. He watches quietly as Harry wipes his wet face with the baggy sleeve of his woolly brown jumper; it covers his knuckles, the one that his mum knit him for his birthday, the one that scratches Louis' cheek a bit when Harry falls asleep on his shoulder.

“I came to say I’m sorry,” Louis says, tearing his gaze away from Harry’s, intense and attentive and always so bloody affectionate that it makes Louis feel light-headed with the weight of it all. He focuses on the toes of his black brogues. "I'm sorry I didn't explain, that I just ran."

“But I’m the one who—” Harry pauses, voice raspy. “I’m the one who’s made things difficult. Complicated. I’ve probably ruined everything and you won’t want to see me anymore—”

“Harry, please,” Louis says, frowning. “Don’t be stupid.”

_Kiss_ him. Harry had tried to kiss him last night. In the middle of the bloody pub. Louis was terrified. They couldn’t do that in the open. Not with people in there who’d have them beaten to a pulp if they caught wind of the level of desire and affection between the two of them. Not in this small poxy town.

“Aren’t you angry at all?"

“Why would I be angry?” Louis says, feigning ignorance. He starts to pick at his shoelaces.

Frowning, Harry angles his body to face Louis’ fully. “You should be angry at me. Why aren’t you yelling?"

“Why would I be yelling at you? Do you want me to yell at you?”

“I tried to kiss you!”

“Yes! And?” Louis half-laughs, half-cries. 

Harry stares, seemingly surprised. He rips his gaze away after a long moment, hunching back into himself. He rests his chin on his knee.

God. Louis _loves _him.

“Niall got us some grass,” Harry continues offhandedly. “They thought I was so hammered that I mistook you for Rosie. They’d never think I was trying to—” He takes a shuddering breath. “They just thought I was fucking drunk.

“Well, you were,” Louis points out. “Guess you would have done anything in that state.”

Harry watches him closely. “No. No, I wouldn’t have.”

Slowly, he takes Louis’ hand that’s resting beside him on the chalky stones, clenched in a tension-filled fist. Harry opens it up carefully, pulling Louis’ open palm into his lap and uncurls Louis’ fingers, gently, delicately, one by one. His thumb brushed Louis’ softly.

Louis’ heart seems to have fallen into his gut.

Because Harry’s hair is in his eyes and the cold is sneaking at the base of Louis’ spine and Harry’s just idly, casually playing with Louis fingers, his touch sending wantonly terrified and desperate shivers through his veins, and there isn’t a single place, a single moment in the world that Louis would rather be instead.

“The lads were wondering where you got off to last night. When you just took off after—” Harry says.

After the almost kiss where Louis had scarpered the premises as soon as he realised what Harry wanted to do.

Harry sniffs, tugging the sleeves of his jumper down, looking snug and freezing at the same time, a bit calmer now that the tears have stopped running down his rosy cheeks. God, Louis thinks he’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. He wants to kiss his cheeks over and over, until they’re dry and warm and creamy again. “Said they saw you with Rosie, frolicking in your car. That you were proper necking each other.”

“As if,” Louis scoffs immediately, the sound cutting and harsh. Bitter. Because wouldn’t it be easier if that were the truth? “I didn’t do a thing with Rosie. Jesus.” He glances at Harry, who’s still staring at Louis with wide eyes full of surprise. “They were just winding you up, Harry.” 

Harry’s brows knit together, a look of fear in his eyes. Louis’ stomach feels like it’s filled with lead. “What? But why would I need winding up about that?” he says, tone a little petulant.

“Because it’s Rosie Wilson. You like her, don’t you?” Louis asks pointedly, sounding jealous as all hell, voice scraping the words out forcefully from his throat. He knows full well Harry is not interested in Rosie. Or any girl, for that matter.

Now it’s Harry’s turn to scoff, albeit a little less unforgiving than Louis’, and more on the amused side. “Please. Everyone thinks _you _have something going on with her.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t,” Louis snaps, causing Harry to flinch. “Not with her. Not with Gracie. Not with anyone. Alright?”

“Maybe you should,” Harry whispers, the sleeve of his jumper finding his eyes again. He rubs his eye socket slowly, like a sleepy kitten.

Louis sighs, softening his hardened expression. The truth is, he’s not angry at Harry. Not in the slightest. And he isn't holding anything against the boys, either. It’s himself he’s angry at. He’s so angry, all the time. Angry at the world. For it wanting to deny him anything that makes him happy.

He just wants to do what he wants. What he loves, what makes him feel fucking alive. And if he wants to kiss Harry in the middle of a packed bleedin’ pub, why the hell shouldn’t he be able to?

“You do know it’s you she was asking after though, right?”

“I don’t want Rosie,” Harry answers instantly, plainly. “She’s nice, and I like talking to her. But I’m not interested in her like that. You_ know_ I’m not, Louis. I’ve—” He chuckles wetly. “I’ve always admired you, you know?” he admits quietly. “Worshipped you, even. You’re basically my fucking hero, Lou.”

And he says it so genuinely, so unabashed, it makes Louis’ heat clench painfully. “Harry—”

“I followed you around right from the start because I liked what you said, and what you did, and you made me laugh, and I just wanted to be mates with you. I wanted to impress you. I wanted your undivided attention at all times. And,” he laughs, “I’d get so jealous when girls would come up to you. Try to take your attention away. The lads, too. And I started to realise quite quickly that it wasn’t you I was jealous of."

They hold each other’s gazes.

Louis holds his breath.

“I was jealous of those girls. I’m jealous of Rosie, of Gracie, of anyone, because_ she_ gets to touch you how I want to. How I can’t, can I? And it’s not fair. She doesn’t even know you. But I _know_ you.” Harry breathes out slowly, eyes filling with tears again. Louis' throat feels choked. "I _do. _Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Of course I bloody understand.” Louis looks away, stares at the horizon. It’s getting darker. Dusk settling in. Orange turning to dark pinks and dark blue. “I feel the same way.”

“What?” Harry says, a slow _whoosh_ of air escaping through his bitten lips, those intense green eyes widening.

“Surely you—you must have known how I—" Louis puts his face his hands, trying to regain his normal breathing pattern. All he knows is that it gets harder and harder to breathe correctly around Harry. And that’s not how it should be, is it? Not for his best mate. Not for his _male_ best mate.

Only, Louis couldn’t give a fuck if people think it’s right or wrong. He knows how he feels. He knows how strongly he feels. How wonderful it feels.

Falling in love.

And it's good, it's right. It's supposed to be. It's something to hold dear, to be proud of. There is no shame in a single bone in Louis' body for the way he feels about the loveliest, kindest, sweetest boy sitting next to him, hanging onto his every word.

“I know what I am, Harry—what _we_ are—and I’m okay with that. I don’t feel bad about it."

"I don't either," Harry says resolutely. "It's not wrong."

Louis nods, smiles. "Exactly."

"What we feel, that’s_ not_ a bad thing. And it's probably never gonna be easy. But how could this ever be a bad thing? It doesn’t make sense. And things, Harry, they’re—they’re changing. Things are changing around us every day. There was this woman, right? She comes into the garage the other day—from San Francisco. America, Harry! And she was talking about this group there, an organisation she's part of. This refuge for people. People like us. And they fight for it, Harry. They march for the right to love whoever they damn well please. I mean, whose fucking business is it who I go to bed with, eh? What kind of pervert wants to know the details about my sex life? And how dare they make us think we may as well be perverts ourselves? That we’re criminals. Sexual bloody deviants or some shit. It’s madness, bleedin’ mad. And you heard about that bill that was passed in parliament a few months ago? If two blokes want to be together, like us, in private, we can. It’s just—we still can’t—you know, be like that in public. Not unless you fancy being lynched on the reg?” Louis grimaces wryly.

“That bill only applies to men over twenty-one, Lou. We’re still technically illegal,” Harry mutters, somewhat dazedly, clinging to his legs even harder.

“I’ll be twenty-one in December,” Louis smirks, nudging Harry’s shoulder with his own. But it’s weak.

“I’ll still only be eighteen,” Harry mumbles.

“Nearly nineteen. You want to be with me, don’t you?” Louis asks, suddenly scared he’s over stepped the mark, pushed too hard. "I'm not just imagining this—"

“Of course you're not. And of course I want to be with you,” Harry says determinedly, eyes glistening with utter resolve, impassioned. “More than anything. In every way." He threads their fingers together. "I wanna hold your hand," he sings quietly, a small smile tugging his full lips. Lips that Louis' eyes linger on.

“Then it’s fine, Harry,” Louis smiles back, chest lighter. “It’s fine anyway. We’re not criminals! We don’t need some law to tell us what we can and can’t do.” Of course he knows the alternative. But he doesn't have to dwell on that always, does he? He has his own life. He should be able to live it.

Harry looks amused. “That is what laws are for, though."

“Not for this. You know this is different. How the bloody hell can they dictate who we fall in love with or what we want to do with our own bleedin’ bodies? It’s bad enough that women don’t get a say in what happens to their own bodies, ain’t it? All those backstreet—you know. It’s barbaric that they're put through that, to go to those lengths. It’s bloody 1967, H. They should have a choice. We should have a choice. The world is changing around us all the time. So should they.”

Harry’s looking at him with something like awe in his eyes, and it takes Louis’ breath away. He’s so, so beautiful. Prettier than anyone Louis’ ever laid his eyes on.

“I love you,” Harry says, clear and loud and without faltering over the crash of the waves in front of them. "You're amazing, do you know that? You know what you want, you stick by what you believe is right. And you don't back down, even if it's just... you know. Quiet rebellion. That's why you're my hero," he says, cheeks flushing, but his voice is sure.

Louis' belly does a somersault. 

"You love me?"

"Yeah. I love you. Loved you a long time now."

“I love you, too,” Louis smiles, wide and true.

Harry beams, shuffling closer to rest his head atop Louis’ shoulder. He wraps his arm around Harry, checking behind them. It’s still just them for miles.

It’ll always be just them.

"Lou?"

Harry lifts his head, practically sitting in Louis' lap. He looks around once, then settles his gaze on Louis' face. His hand curls around the edge of Louis' jaw, the tips of his fingers brushing against his ear, his other hand clasping Louis' bent elbow, his arm cradled around Harry's woolly-clad shoulder. He thumbs the material softly.

Now Harry has him, all of him, and Louis isn't ever willing to give this up for anything else, not when he feels this alive.

Soft but slightly chapped lips press gently, timidly against Louis' own, mouths moving steadily, like a warm stream trickling slowly, soothingly, down a grass bank, through a meadow of blossoming flowers and the sweet scent of summer fruits. He tastes like summer, like spring. He tastes like uncontrollable laughter, like a squeezing hug. He takes like cherries, like gold. He tastes like comfort and understanding and butterflies and warm breath.

Like exhilaration. 

He tastes like love. Like _life._

Louis angles his head the other way, kissing him more deeply. Their hands gripping each other's faces, feverish and relieved and happy. So happy.

Harry pecks his lips once, twice. They're still alone on this beach. Only the waves are witnesses to maybe the best moment of Louis' life.

"Let's stay here a bit longer?" Harry whispers, squeezing Louis' hand. "Until the sun's gone down."

"We can stay here forever, if you want?" Louis murmurs into his hair, pulls him close.

Harry nudges Louis' cheek with his nose, smiling into another kiss.

"Forever sounds good."

**Author's Note:**

> here's the [fic post](https://twoheartsbeating.tumblr.com/post/189211146151/the-way-you-smile-golden-by-pearlydewdrops-word) to reblog on tumblr :)


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